


Five Dressing Gowns, a Bathrobe, and a Bedsheet

by okapi



Series: Clothes Make the Woman [10]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst, Bets & Wagers, Communication, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dressing gowns, Ego, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Femlock, Flogging, Gender or Sex Swap, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Jealousy, Kink Exploration, Light Bondage, Nursing Kink, POV Alternating, Praise Kink, Riding Crops, Rimming, Safeword Use, Sexting, Sleepy Sex, Strap-Ons, Trust, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unsafe Impact Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:23:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4693649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week in the life of 221B. PWP. Fem!Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Blue Silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John learns something new. Praise kink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this dressing gown](http://www.spylight.com/shows/sherlock/products/47971-intimo-men-s-classic-silk-robe).

“I don’t want tea, John.”

“I don’t either, now.”

Without taking her eyes from Sherlock’s, John set the mug on the kitchen table behind her and promptly forgot about it.

It was late morning, but what a night!

John still felt a bit breathless, a bit flush.

A bit invincible.

It had been her favourite kind of case: justice served, villains hauled away in handcuffs, and a chase! She had ensured a near-miss _was_ a near-miss and sat front-row to one of Sherlock’s jaw-dropping deductions. And for once in their partnership, she’d managed to keep the jaw-dropping to herself and not play the village idiot in front of Sherlock and half the Metropolitan Police Service.

All in all, it had been well worth the loss of a night’s sleep. In fact, with adrenaline-soaked blood still pounding through her veins, fatigue and rest were the farthest things from John’s mind.

She reached for Sherlock, who had just sashayed into the kitchen as if it were a Parisian runway.

“Sorry about your suit—“

Sherlock scooped her hands under John’s buttocks and, in one smooth movement, hoisted her onto the kitchen table. John’s legs sprung apart, and Sherlock leaned into the V.

Eye-to-eye, they grinned.

John ran her hands along Sherlock’s shoulders; warm flesh radiated through cool silk. John knew the dressing gown to be Sherlock’s everyday one, but there was nothing everyday about this moment.

Sherlock had never looked more beautiful: cheeks still slightly pink, grey irises shining silver around dilating pupils, and tight chignon—which John had been forced to concede _was_ the perfect coiffure for stylish villain-chasing—in the first stages of unravelling. John’s hands flew to Sherlock’s hair; she ached to bury her fingers in the silkiness. She plucked out hairpins and dropped them around Sherlock’s feet.

All the while, she stared at Sherlock’s lips. God, what they could do! Rapid-fire monologues that never ceased to amaze. And when they touched hers...

Like they were doing now. Right now. Yes!

The kiss was hungry and wet and demanding; in a nutshell, it was…

“Brilliant.”

The word escaped John’s lips as soon as Sherlock broke the kiss. John felt Sherlock tense. She gently massaged Sherlock’s scalp and breathed in the sweet scent of shampoo layered beneath the night’s other fragrances. And waited.

Sherlock pulled away. “Was I?” she asked.

“Brilliant?” John’s chuckle died. The look on Sherlock’s face! Haughty French model was now lip-biting English school girl. “Love, of course you were! It goes without saying—“

“It doesn’t, really. You _always_ say it, say something. This time you didn’t.”

“That’s because on the last case, when Lestrade called you ‘astonishing,’ you said, and I quote, ‘Don’t bother. John’s already expressed that sentiment in every possible variant of the English language.’ I took the hint and decided to keep my mouth shut this time.”

“Per usual, you completely missed the point. I said, ‘ _John’s_ already expressed it.’ Therefore, no one else, certainly not Lestrade, need bother.”

Oh.

John had missed the point. Completely. She brushed her thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip. “Would you prefer to pout, or am I permitted to remedy my grievous lapse?”

Sherlock looked away. Then she looked back with a coy twitch of a smile on her lips. “I’m feeling magnanimous.”

John pulled her closer. “You are feeling,” she rubbed her face against a silk-covered shoulder, “ _glorious_.” She caught Sherlock’s gaze and said slowly,

“You were _brilliant._ ”

Sherlock threw her head back, with a wide, almost triumphant, smile. Encouraged, John continued. “Fantastic,” she murmured, brushing her mouth against exposed neck. The pulse beneath her lips was racing. Then she heard a soft moan and felt Sherlock’s body tremble. “Amazing,” she whispered, pressing kisses to Sherlock’s skin. Then there was a quiet choking noise. Sherlock dug her nails into John through woolly jumper, and she began to rut against the edge of the table.

John raised an eyebrow. Not that she was complaining or doubting her prowess, but she had the vague notion that things were accelerating at an unusual clip.

“Sherlock?”

“I _need_ to hear it, hear you say it.”

“That you’re brilliant?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s inhale and exhale loudly, as if she were trying to keep the strain from her voice. “Genius needs an audience, John. An appreciative audience. Of one. You.”

John hummed and tugged the dressing gown off Sherlock’s shoulder. She kissed from shoulder to neck, only stopping to say,

“Spectacular. Incredible. Exceptional.”

Sherlock’s hips bucked, causing the table to sway. She gripped John’s shoulders.

John’s fingers toyed with a nipple through the thin film of fabric. “Just your mind or are other attributes fair game?”

Sherlock’s voice was breathy and coarse. “Who am I to stifle your muse?” she replied and fumbled with the sash of the dressing gown.

John pushed her hands away and undid the knot. She parted the two sides, and, looking down at the nude body on display, exclaimed,

“Christ, you’re exquisite!”

Sherlock moaned. John quickly slid a hand down Sherlock’s body, caressing a breast, teasing a nipple, gliding over her stomach to her mons. Then, without preamble, she sank two fingers in Sherlock’s cunt.

Sherlock moaned again and resumed her rutting. John panted in her ear. “That’s right, gorgeous. Fuck that luscious cunt right on me. Soak the whole arm, my beautiful beast. Make a right mess of me, my clever, clever girl.”

And while the precise effect of her words on Sherlock might have, until now, been a mystery to John, the sound Sherlock made next was decidedly not. With her entire body, John held Sherlock close as she climaxed. And while the tremors subsided, John brushed her knuckles across Sherlock’s cheek, kissed her still-trembling lips, and thought:

_You learn something new every day._

* * *

Sherlock was brilliant. It was fact.

From the moment that the pregnant pause at the end of her deductive spiel had been left, well, stillborn, she had weighed the pros and cons of making her need known to John. For the length of the taxi ride back to Baker Street, she held a silent and fierce debate.

And she had made the right choice. Because any embarrassment at acknowledging a chink in her Savile Row armour was proving well worth the boon of getting her fix in its purest form, undiluted by the distraction of the Work and its related accoutrement, i.e., people who were not John.

And her one nagging worry had been laid to rest as Sherlock now knew the words that she craved to be no less sincere, and no less powerful, because they were uttered upon request and not spontaneously, say, over a mutilated corpse.

And this was only round one.

There would be a second round, Sherlock knew, and perhaps even a third, in a far more accommodating setting, with John tongue-deep in her cunt, only pausing in her worship to wipe her face against Sherlock’s inner thigh and whisper filthy endearments and syrupy accolades.

Yes, it was well worth it.

Sherlock let the dressing gown slip from her arms. As it pooled onto the kitchen floor, John hopped from her perch and fell directly to a squat.

There was a vice grip around her calves, and Sherlock instinctively lifted her arms overhead. She shot straight up in the air like a high diver and then folded over John’s shoulder. She whimpered as her still-sensitive mons rubbed against woolly jumper with every bounce down the hallway, and she openly moaned, in relief and anticipation, when John kicked the bedroom door shut.

_Well_ worth it.


	2. The Other Blue Silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock learns something new. Sleep sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this dressing gown](http://www.sherlockology.com/wardrobe/blue-dressing-gown-sherlock-holmes).

John blinked.

She could not have dozed more than minutes, but Sherlock was already leaning against the headboard, tapping her mobile. She wore a blue dressing gown, the _other_ blue dressing gown, distinguishable from the everyday—which was still decorating the kitchen floor, John recalled—by a thin, iridescent stripe. To say that she was wearing it was not wholly accurate as the garment was tied at the waist, but she had slipped out of the sleeves, leaving her upper body bare. The juxtaposition of nude torso and waves of blue fabric was too lovely to escape comment.

“You look like a Renaissance painting. Like a goddess.”

Sherlock did not look up. “Botticelli. _The Birth of Venus_. Uffizi.”

“Yeah,” said John. “Venus.” She wiped the sweat from the back of her neck. Though clad only in cotton vest and pants, she was uncomfortably warm. Strong afternoon sun filtered into the room, and the duvet on Sherlock’s bed was far too heavy for the time of year.

“Does that make you Diana? Goddess of the hunt?”

John scowled. Was Sherlock taking the piss? That was rich, given how they’d spent last night, not to mention the last few hours. “I’m nobody’s idea of a goddess,” she grumbled and rolled toward the far side of the bed. Maybe she would kip upstairs…

John felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Or Vulcan.”

John frowned. “Which one is that?”

“God of fire, volcanos, metalworking. Frightful-looking. Cripple. Mate of Venus.”

John turned and studied Sherlock’s face. Finally, curiosity won out over suspicion. “How did he get the girl?”

“One version is that he crafted thunderbolts for Jupiter. There are others.”

John hummed. “Ugly, but useful. And lucky. Sounds like me.” She eyed Sherlock’s mobile. “Are you going to sleep at all?”

“No. I’m…good.”

At Sherlock’s blush, John’s peevishness evaporated. Memory of the morning’s revelation came flooding back. John was well aware of the risk that Sherlock had taken in admitting her need for John’s praise, and she decided to take a risk of her own.

“I want to sleep more,” she said.

Sherlock nodded and settled back against the headboard, turning her attention back to the small screen.

“You could, uh, join me, uh, in my dreams,” John said slowly.

“I’m not going to—“

Sherlock’s eyes darted; then they settled on John and widened into a full-blown stare.

Now one of the first things that John had learned upon taking up residence in 221B was that Sherlock Holmes did not repeat herself, nor did she ask for statements to be repeated. It was rarely necessary as she typically understood everything, text and subtext, upon initial utterance. In addition, she could, through tone and inflection, infuse a single word, usually _one_ single word, with so much meaning as to render much of the English language—and the other twenty- six dialects of which she had mastery—superfluous.

So, as John anticipated, it wasn’t ‘Excuse me?’ or ‘Pardon?’ or even ‘What the fuck?’ but simply,

“John?”

Seeing she had her lover’s full attention, John felt magnanimous. She’d help her out.

“When I nap, especially in the afternoon, especially when I’m warm, my dreams are quite, well, lurid. And my inhibitions, virtually non-existent. So I would, uh, enjoy it, uh,” John hid her face in the pillow, “if you, uh, you know, took advantage of that. Of me.”

John peeked out and saw the mobile tip out of Sherlock’s hand. Ha! That was a first! “If you want, of course. Up to you,” she added hastily.

“When you say ‘virtually’—“

John took Sherlock’s hand, the one that was still holding an invisible phone, and kissed her fingertips. “I trust you,” she said. “And I’ll even make it easy for you.” She yanked her vest over her head and tossed it and her pants onto the floor.

Sherlock blinked. Then she retrieved her mobile from where it had fallen on the bed.

“Sweet dreams, John.”

John smiled and tugged the duvet over her shoulders.

* * *

Well.

John Watson.

 _Her_ John Watson, patron saint of consent, leave, and permission, had just invited Sherlock to take advantage of her, to use John’s quaint term. Given Sherlock carte blanche to experiment, nay, John hated that word, to _explore_ her. Sexually. While she slept. Inhibitions, _virtually non-existent_.

Well, well, well.

After the initial shock faded, Sherlock’s mind raced to formulate a strategy, one that would please John, please Sherlock, and maybe, just maybe, if things went very well, lay the foundation for _future_ exploration.

Sherlock shook her head. This was no time for pondering the hypothetical. She had scant minutes before John descended into the first REM stage and commenced dreaming. And, she considered, she would not have an interminable time to execute whatever strategy she crafted. She had to prioritize.

In her mind, overlapping circles appeared: what conscious John enjoyed; what unconscious John _might_ enjoy; what Sherlock enjoyed; what Sherlock had wanted to do, but had not done due to conscious John’s preferences.

And, of course, at the centre of the diagram was one word. Penetration.

From the beginning, Sherlock had longed to be inside John, to feel her wetness and warmth, to taste and smell her at her very core. But even the slightest probing had been met with such tension, such horrid steeling of the lie-back-and-think-of-England variety, that Sherlock had quickly _abandoned_ the notion.

And, of course, they had never spoken of it.

John liked frottage, no, John _loved_ frottage, and so Sherlock had been content to find all sorts of surfaces on which John could rub herself to release. And that was fine. All fine, as John would say.

But now was an opportunity, perhaps _the_ opportunity, to give looser, if perhaps not entirely free, rein to an abandoned fantasy, but…

_I trust you._

John trusted Sherlock.

Sherlock would have to proceed carefully. Very carefully. Silently, she leapt from the bed and moved about the room.

Supplies gathered, thoughts organized, she threw off her dressing gown. Now was not the time for encumbrances.

The game—this gloriously _new_ game—was on.

* * *

Sherlock studied John’s face. What was she dreaming of? Roman gods? The heat and fire of the forge, and perhaps a cool blue sea in the distance, and herself rising from the surf?

“Beautiful.”

Aloud, the word in itself was something new and precious. John loathed compliments on her appearance. Even the most oblique remark soured her mood, creating an icy moat around her that took ages to thaw. Sherlock’s internal censor had long been in place, leaving her to laud John’s utility, which was horrid on principle and wholly inappropriate in intimate scenarios. So Sherlock said nothing.

But John _was_ beautiful. Strong and soft and warm. Full of surprises and contradictions, which Sherlock found interesting and charming and so very, very _John_.

Sherlock pulled the duvet and sheet down to John’s waist. She crouched over John’s sleeping form, bending her head to trail her tongue across John’s sweat-damp neck. She stopped to smile when she heard a snuffled sigh. Then she licked down John’s spine, careful to keep most her weight on her own limbs. When she reached John’s lower back, she reached for a pillow and gently pushed it under John’s lower body. John mounted the pillow.

Oh, this was going to be good.

Sherlock drew a spare blanket across John’s shoulders and upper back. Then she pushed the pillow under John up, up, up and then, with a nimbleness heretofore _not_ required of her in the bedroom, slipped underneath John.

Sherlock decided very quickly that it was well worth any amount of awkwardness and discomfort on her part because the high-pitched, sleepy squeak escaped John’s lips when Sherlock’s tongue touched her clit was glorious. Glorious for many reasons, not the least of which, of course, was that it was new. New data on John was Sherlock’s favourite kind of data. John’s taste, the texture of her coarse hair against Sherlock’s tongue, her scent, the way her muscles flexed and relaxed and, of course, the noises. The marvellous noises like that squeak. Like Christmas!

After much wet teasing, Sherlock’s tongue probed John’s cunt. Tongue-fucking a sleeping John Watson on a Monday afternoon. Sherlock spared only a moment to consider the unlikeliness of the entire statement. John spread her legs wider; her hips began to move. One of Sherlock’s hands gripped John’s buttock while the other braced her open.

That’s right, my filthy girl. Rut yourself on me. Smother me with your sex.

The muscles of John's thighs tensed. The next sound was one of…frustration?

John wanted more. Well, Sherlock would give her more. Sherlock slid out from under John. The noise was louder, and for a moment, Sherlock feared that John would wake. She pulled the pillow down and the blanket away and draped her body atop John’s. She leaned to the side and slipped a hand down. John arched toward Sherlock’s fingers.

Oh, John. Finger-fucking too? Wet, slick, warm, in and out, pumping. One finger, then two. Sherlock paused to spread her fingers, stretching John, feeling the width, the walls within, but the motion elicit a sharp twitch and a grunt, so she quickly returned to slow thrusting. She licked at John’s skin, synchronizing the swipes of her tongue with the movement of her fingers.

John’s hand was gripping the sheet. She likes this. Likes me fucking her this way. Extraordinary.

Sherlock considered: she could quit now and rest in the knowledge that she acquired and the pleasure she had facilitated thus far, or…

With two fingers still resting inside John, Sherlock drew the blanket back with her free hand; she reached and pulled until it covered most of John’s back and shoulders, leaving only her buttocks bare. Then Sherlock licked down John’s cleft. One, two light licks to John’s rim, her ears straining to detect any sound from above. Nothing. Another lick, and there it was.

A sigh. A nice, long, enjoying-myself sigh.

In an instant, Sherlock’s tongue was teasing John’s arse while her fingers thrust slowly and deeply into John’s cunt. The tiny muscles of Sherlock’s hand and wrist were cramping, but she would’ve sooner sawed her own hand off than stop. John’s sighs grew louder. She rocked into Sherlock’s mouth, onto Sherlock’s fingers, and against the pillow. Her movements sped up and then slowed until she stilled completely.

Sherlock stopped her ministrations, removed her hand from John, and sat back.

She was so _wet_. And soft. And open. So…fuckable.

Sherlock donned the harness and affixed the dildo to it.

She could, she told herself as she coated the dildo with lubricant. John had said that she could. _Virtually non-existent_ , those had been John’s exact words _._ She could. Sink this cock into John. Pull her head back by the hair. Piston her own hips against John’s buttocks. Watch the prick disappear over and over into John’s stretched cunt. Hear the vulgar squishing of lubricant and John’s own wetness leaking.

She could. John had said that she could. She had given Sherlock consent, leave, permission, all of it!

_I trust you._

Sherlock looked down. The cock wasn’t huge, but it was bigger than Sherlock’s two fingers, having been selected for Sherlock’s pleasure, not John’s. John would wake, how could she not?

And then what?

A multitude of possibilities flashed in Sherlock’s mind, but she had no criteria to weigh the probabilities. This was new, so new, that she could only guess. But there was something, something of which she _was_ certain: John wouldn’t come.

John didn’t _have_ to come, she argued. It wasn’t a requirement, an egalitarian division of treats, one scoop of vanilla for Sherlock, one scoop of raspberry ripple for John. John didn’t think like that. Sherlock didn’t think like that.

But…

John was snorting. A waking-up kind of snorting.

_Fuck!_

Sherlock unhooked the harness and threw the entire ensemble on the floor. She pulled the blanket away and slid over John, lining up her own hips with John’s buttocks and rocking them together. John’s moans were growing louder and clearer.

“Sh-sh-sh---“

Sherlock whispered, “That’s right, John. It’s me, fucking you. In dream, in reality.”

The huffed cry into the pillow was soft, but unmistakeable. Sherlock rolled beside John and, with a pair of light touches to her own clit, was biting her lip hard, squeezing her hand between her legs, and stilling her mind to a single word.

 _John_.

* * *

Sherlock studied John’s face. She would wake. Soon.

She crept from the bed, dressed, and closed the door behind her. She would make a show of returning to the scavenger beetles and slabs of decomposing Argentine beef, but her mind, up and running again, was already buzzing and whirring, sorting, organizing, and storing all the lovely, lovely new data.

She smiled.

She, Sherlock Holmes, was brilliant. It was fact.

* * *

John sat on the edge of the bed.

Holy. Fuck.

She was one lucky girl. Perhaps the luckiest girl on the bloody planet. And Sherlock? Sherlock was...

John yawned and looked about the floor for her vest and pants.

Hello!

The dildo was peeking out of a tumble of blue silk. She picked it up and sniffed. Lubricant. Nothing else.

Interesting.

She found Sherlock hunched at the kitchen table, eyes glued to the eyepieces of the microscope. She pressed her lips to the side of Sherlock’s neck and whispered,

“You are a god.”

Then she shuffled back down the hall to the loo, smiling.

There was no slide under the microscope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got a book, like you do, about writing erotic fiction and one of the recommendations made me laugh: every character should get one orgasm. I immediately thought of one scoop of ice cream. That's not my way. Sometimes only one person gets a scoop, sometimes nobody gets a scoop, and as you'll see later, sometimes someone gets too many scoops. So if you're a one scoop per character kind of reader, as Obe-wan would say, this is not the fic you're looking for!


	3. The Red Silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which games are played and everyone wins. Light bondage. Strap-on. Dirty talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this dressing gown](http://www.sherlockology.com/wardrobe/red-dressing-gown-sherlock-holmes).

“Sherlock! What the hell is going on?” John bounded up the stairs. “It’s been a long time since you left me at a crime scene!”

_WHAM!_

John flew face-first against the wall. A hand slid between her and the hard surface, absorbing the impact, but not the shock. Hot breath tickled her ear.

“Did you like the attention that you were getting tonight? _I_ didn’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

John turned her head and spied a draping sleeve.

Red silk.

Sherlock’s red silk dressing gown aptly brought to mind a matador’s cape, but in this particular tableau, Sherlock was both bull and cape, both angry, goaded, charging beast and waving flag fanning the flames of pique. And John had the very real sense that she was the one about to be gored.

“Sherlock?”

John felt the full length of Sherlock’s body pinning her to the wall.

“The barman.”

“Because he gave me some shepherd’s pie?! Is that what passes for flirting these days? Look, it was pissing rain and I was serving no discernible purpose so I thought I’d pop in that pub before it closed while you were doing your thing. And I told you all of this, but you obviously deleted it.”

“And then you got to chatting!”

“He was closing up. He asked me if I was hungry, and I said yes—because I _was,_ because I’d been out in the pissing rain for hours—and he brought out a plate. End of story. There was no chatting, at least not of the kind that you’re implying. I think I’d know.” John laughed.

“Really? Then tell me why,” a hand was in John’s jacket pocket and then a crumpled blue sheet spread on the wall by her face, “ _Kieran’s_ number is on this flyer!”

“Fuck me,” said John softly, staring at the scribbled numbers

“Oh, I intend to. I intend to take you apart, piece by piece, until Kieran and his precious shepherd’s pie are no longer part of your vocabulary.”

“Sherlock, I didn’t ask that bloke for his number. He asked me if I go to pub nights, I said yes, because I do, as you well know, with Stamford and Lestrade, and he gave me that flyer for the pub. I didn’t even look at it. I just shoved it in my pocket because when I looked out the window, I realized that you were gone.”

“Oh, I’ll let you plead your case. You might be pleading quite a lot tonight.”

Then John was being pushed down the hall; her jacket and jumper were yanked off and thrown to the floor.

Once in the bedroom, Sherlock heaved John onto the bed. “This,” she said as she held up the sash of her dressing gown, “is so you don’t go running to Kieran.” She spread John’s arms wide, crucifixion-style, and tied each wrist to the iron rod that ran the length of the headboard.

John’s mouth open and closed.

What the fuck?

Did Sherlock _really_ think John was going to run off with some man she’d just met for some cottage pie?!

And when had they decided it was okay to tie her up?

A whisper of panic gripped her.

“John.”

John’s eyes followed Sherlock’s to the tangle of red silk. It was nothing, hardly even a slipknot. One sharp tug and she’d be free.

Oh. It’s a game.

But John wasn’t convinced that she wanted to play. Yet.

Looking every bit the predatory jungle cat, Sherlock crawled across the bed until their foreheads touched. “You are mine, John Watson, and I intend to remind you of that fact.” Sherlock’s dressing gown fell open, revealing a short nightgown of matching scarlet. “I’m going to scent you properly,” she said. John closed her eyes and let Sherlock’s dark, gravelly voice seep into the crevices of her mind. “I’m going to _rub_ myself all over you until my territory is well-marked.”

John hummed. That sounded quite nice, actually.

She felt Sherlock straddled her hips and then hold her head in two hands. A quick, hard kiss on her mouth and then Sherlock began painting John’s entire face from brow to chin with her nose and lips. The nuzzling continued along John’s jaw and neck. Whether Sherlock was unleashing her own feral instincts or imitating something from a nature programme, John didn’t care.

She sighed contentedly.

Sherlock worried a spot on John’s neck, licking at it, scraping her teeth across it, kissing it tenderly. John wanted to melt, but it was difficult to melt with her arms still spread and, frankly, beginning to ache. She managed a bit of a slouch.

John’s eyes flew open when she felt Sherlock’s weight lift.

Sherlock was now perched at John’s feet, removing her shoes and socks.

“I need a word, John.”

John wiggled her toes. Oh, was this about yesterday?

“Lovely,” said John, smiling. Sherlock huffed and rolled her eyes.

Not about yesterday. Give a girl a hint, Sherlock.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched a half-smile. She stretched up and kissed the tip of John’s nose. “A colour, perhaps?” she whispered as she reached behind John’s head and rearranged the pillows. John leaned into Sherlock as far as her tenuous bonds allowed. Then Sherlock pushed her back.

Oh. That felt better. Her arms felt much better. She might last quite a bit like this.

Sherlock huffed again. Louder.

John looked at Sherlock, looked at the silk. A colour? Red?

Sherlock was growling now. She sprang from the bed. And then returned.

With the crop!

Jesus Christ! Colour, colour. Oh. “Green?” John squeaked.

Sherlock bowed her head, almost hiding her full, wicked smile. Almost. She dropped the crop on the bed and retrieved a tube of lotion from the drawer of the bedside table. “These feet are mine, John,” she purred and and began to knead John’s heels and arches with slick fingers.

Nice. So, so nice. John groaned and closed her eyes.

“Mine, mine, mine,” said Sherlock as she moved to the balls of John’s feet. “You are mine.”

God Almighty, yes. John groaned again.

Suddenly, it stopped. “Hey, hey,” John protested. “Come back!” She opened her eyes.

Sherlock was pacing back and forth at the end of the bed, striking the riding crop against the palm of her hand. She spoke like an actor reading lines from script, a script, John thought, of which there was lamentably only one copy. In Sherlock’s mind.

“It’s so difficult to train a pet…” she began. Then she stopped in front of John.

John tensed as the leather tongue of the crop brushed the sole of her foot. Game or no game, she was ready to kick Sherlock in the face. Any second now…

“…Sometimes it seems like we are speaking completely different languages, because when I say, ‘you are _mine_ …’”

Ah! Finally!

“I’m _yours_ ,” John replied. “Yours, yours, yours.”

The riding crop hit the floor, and then John herself was hit with a flurry of dark hair and red silk. All at once, it seemed that Sherlock’s mouth was everywhere, nipping, licking, sucking, moving down the slope of John’s neck toward her shoulder, sneaking under her dark vest to pepper kisses on skin.

Yes, yes, yes. No? Lord, what now?!

Sherlock was staring.

Huh, thought John. She was just noticing it.

Interesting.

* * *

Sherlock produced a knife from the bedside table, cut two nicks in the bottom hem of John’s vest, and rent the garment in pieces. The sound of ripping fabric seemed to suit her outrage. The vest fell away.

Sherlock stared at the black bra. Black satin bra. _Sexy_ black satin bra.

Until this very moment, Sherlock would have sworn under oath that all of John’s underclothing was white and cotton. Athletic bras and men’s style pants. Serviceable. Utilitarian. Dreary. The antithesis of everything considered ‘sexy’ by conventional standards.

Sherlock didn’t do laundry because John did laundry. Regardless, she had made a detailed inventory of the clothes that John wore, but apparently that was a subset of the clothes that John _owned_. There were grievous gaps in Sherlock’s knowledge. Well, one grievous gap. One sexy black satin grievous gap.

Or two?!

She unfastened John’s jeans and yanked them off her roughly.

Knickers! Of course! What was that silly phrase?

“Matchy-matchy!” sang John, barely stifling her giggles.

Sherlock scowled and silently cursed herself. She should have noted how John’s jumper lay differently on her body or at least caught a glimpse of the black strap before now. For goodness’s sake, she spent all evening with her, hauled her through the flat, tossed her about, tied her up…

…and hadn’t noticed.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

She’d been distracted. By jealousy? Not really.

Looking through the frosted window at the scene inside the pub, she _had_ felt a pang of something. She had seen the look on the barman’s face while John was hunched over the plate, gobbling up the hideous concoction.

No, that pang had quickly been displaced by an idea, by the real distraction. Since yesterday, John’s words had been on constant loop in Sherlock’s mind. _You are a god. You are a god. You are a god._ Sherlock had reached the conclusion that it was all a matter of presentation. For example, would John enjoy being tied up was not the right question. The right question was, under what circumstances _might_ John enjoy being tied up.

The idea had blossomed into a game, and here they were, playing: John tied to the headboard, and Sherlock dragging the tip of the riding crop across John’s skin, watching gooseflesh erupt and downy hair stand on end.

“Naughty, naughty girl,” Sherlock growled. The leather tongue travelled up and down John’s thighs and across her stomach. “So very naughty.”

John’s flesh was straining beautifully against the satin. Not a new purchase. How long had she had it? Sherlock wondered. She caught John’s gaze and saw her trying not to smile. The keeper brushed John’s lips, and they curled upwards in a grin.

The urge hit Sherlock like a freight train: she didn’t just want John to smile, she wanted her to come. Now.

She threw the crop aside and pounced. With clumsy twisting and rude contortions, she slotted the two of them so that John was now straddling Sherlock. John objected.

“Sherlock! Sherlock! My legs don’t go that way!”

“Trust me,” whispered Sherlock, placing John’s hands on her own shoulders for balance.

“My knees, my arms, won’t last long like this.”

“Who says we need long?” You’re mine, John Watson.” Sherlock gripped John’s buttocks through the satin.

“Yours,” breathed John.

“Show me, you sexy minx. Rub those naughty little knickers on me.”

At that, Sherlock expected John to launch herself in a rutting frenzy. She was surprised. Again.

John looked down. “You think so?” she asked in a small voice. “After yesterday, I wanted, you know, to do something nice, uh, for you. You actually think it’s, um, you know…”

Oh, John.

Sherlock’s heart broke a bit. But just a bit. She schooled her voice into its richest, sultriest, old Hollywood siren timbre. “I think I’ll chop Kieran up and serve him under mashed potatoes before I’ll let him anywhere near you!”

“HA, HA HA! Christ, I love you, Sherlock.” John pressed smiling lips to the side of Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock’s heart bloomed like a flower in spring.

“Come on, help me,” John whispered. And Sherlock did.

Together they found the speed and angle and the necessary friction that had John keening. “Yours, yours, yours,” she chanted. “Always yours, love. Oh, Christ, Sherlock, now.” Sherlock tilted her head and felt the glorious sensation of teeth sinking into silk-covered skin.

When John’s breathing had quieted, Sherlock quickly untangled their limbs and reached for the sash.

“But the shepherd’s pie _was_ delicious.”

Sherlock whipped her head ‘round and caught the teasing light in John’s eyes.

Oh, you little minx.

* * *

My turn, thought John.

“I was hungry. Starving, in fact.”

“For meat pie?” Sherlock scoffed as she rubbed John’s arms.

John shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe other things, too.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“He put flavours in my mouth, Sherlock. Maybe I wanted other flavours, other things, in my mouth too.” John watched Sherlock’s expression change from amusement to something much darker. “It’s been so long, Sherlock, since I had a cock in my mouth. Since I had someone feed me something hard and big. Since I was sucking on something…hard…and…big.”

John bit her lip and felt her cheeks flush. Too silly? she wondered, but her embarrassment vaporized the instant that Sherlock knelt on the bed with the blue dildo peeking out from beneath her nightgown.

John leaned forward, tentatively at first, testing the strength and sensation in her arms, and then with greater confidence. She took the head of the dildo in her mouth.

“John.”

John licked around the shaft.

“John!”

She heard Sherlock’s grunts and, in her peripheral vision, saw the fluttering of hands around her face, but when she pulled off and sat back on her heels, Sherlock’s hands were clasped behind her back. Her face was pinched.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock swallowed loudly and looked down. “You saw yesterday.”

John nodded.

“I didn’t, John. I didn’t…”

“I know.”

“I wanted to, but…”

“I know that, too. Do you like this?” John sucked the tip of the cock.

“Yes.”

John reached for Sherlock’s hands and put them on her head. “Like this?” The words were garbled; drops of spit hit the duvet, forming dark splotches.

“Yes. God, yes. Just like this.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s hair. Hard.

Wow. Okay. That’s new.

John took a deep breath through her nose and let Sherlock’s hands guide her mouth.

“Is this okay?” Sherlock panted.

John hummed.

“Do you want, uh, to…?”

John sat back and gave the dildo a thoughtful look. She shook her head.

Sherlock’s words came quickly, a little too quickly. “Oh, okay. It’s fine. It’s all fine. It’s wonderful, actually. Thank you.”

“But…”

John crawled to the edge of the bed and hung off of it. She tossed the bottle of lubricant over her shoulder and then crawled back to Sherlock’s crumbling pillow embankment. She leaned back and said with a grin, “Lube it up and talk to me.”

Sherlock smiled and flicked the cap of the bottle open with a flourish.

“What do you want to do to me, Sherlock?” John’s voice was soft, almost conversational. Almost.

Sherlock’s tone matched John’s. “Fuck you,” she said and squirted a sizable amount of clear gel into her hand.

“With that cock?”

“This one right here.” Sherlock began stroking the shaft.

“You want to put it here?” John pushed her breasts together; her fingers tripped across her cleavage.

“Yes. Right there.”

John unclasp the bra and wiggled out of it. “Better?”

“Much better,” said Sherlock, squeezing more lube onto her palm.

John cupped her breasts and teased the nipples with her thumbs. “You’d want me to play with them while you fucked me.”

“Of course. Come here. Hold out your hand.” John did. “Make them wet. It’s better.” John coated the fingertips of both hands and resumed her toying. “Oh! That _is_ better!” she exclaimed with wide eyes.

Sherlock chuckled. As they talked, she applied layer after layer of slick onto the dildo until it began dripping messily onto the bedding.

“You’re leaking,” said John.

“What you do to me, little minx.”

John bent her knees to the side. She ran a hand from the back of her knee up her thigh to her buttock and made wide circles over the crotch of the knickers.

“You want to fuck this cunt.”

Sherlock nodded. “That pretty arse, too.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Now who’s a naughty girl?”

“I’m not the one wearing black knickers!”

“You’re not wearing knickers at all!”

They grinned at each other.

Then John moved onto all fours and turned around, looking over her shoulder.

“So it’s like this, no?”

“Yes.”

“Mounting me? Fucking me?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Begging? No, pleading? ’Please, Sherlock. More, more’?”

“A little more…blasphemous.”

John dropped her head and grinned.

That was the last bit. She had it. She kicked off her knickers.

“John?”

“So you’re pulling my hair…”

“Yes…”

“And I’m moaning, ‘Holy Mother of God…”

“Yes!”

“And I’m whining, ’Sherlock, I need it. Please. Hard and deep.’”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“’My sweet cunt, my pretty arse, too.’”

“Yes! John!”

John flipped and as Sherlock crashed into her, she guided the slick cock between her thighs. They were side-by-side, with Sherlock was pumping frantically. And though their bodies bounced violently, John held Sherlock’s head still and panted in her ear.

“Please, Sherlock, please. Fuck your girl, your good, good girl. The way she wants it. Deep and hard. So greedy this one, so hungry for it. Jesus Christ!”

“So good, John, so good. Anything. Anything you want. Anything at all. I’m yours. Yours to command.”

“MINE!” roared John with a snarl. She rose up with one hand twisted tight in Sherlock’s hair and the other snaked beneath the harness.

“JOHN!”

* * *

John frowned at the sodden tissue as it disintegrated in her fingers. “This isn’t working. I’m going to need a flannel. Maybe just a shower.” She looked down at her thighs and sighed. "This duvet is going in the laundry as soon as you're," she glanced at Sherlock, who lay face-down in the bedding, "amenable." John scooted toward the edge of the bed. She stopped and waved a near-empty bottle over the back of Sherlock's head. “ _And_ we’re going to need more lube.”

Sherlock made a muffled noise.

“Hmm?” asked John.

Sherlock mumbled again.

John smiled and pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. “Not true. But as a conductor of brilliance?”

Sherlock lifted her head and slurred, “ _Unbeatable_.”


	4. The Camel Cashmere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which promises are made. Nursing kink. Hurt/comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this dressing gown](http://www.spylight.com/shows/sherlock/products/47000-kensington).

“You’re an idiot!”

The taxi hit a bump in the road, and Sherlock’s words ricocheted against the walls of John’s skull like pebbles.

“What day is it?” John groaned. “Wednesday?”

“Thursday now.”

“Christ. I promised Sarah I’d help at the surgery today.”

John felt the heat of Sherlock’s gaze.

“You’re not going!”

John shrugged. Christ, even shrugging hurt. “I promised,” she said feebly.

“You’re an idiot!”

“You said that!” John snapped. She twisted her head sharply towards Sherlock, but had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. Her eyes watered.

“It bears repeating.”

They passed the remainder of the ride in silence.

By the time John made it up the stairs, Sherlock was in mid-rant, pacing about the sitting room, waving her hands.

Pebbles. Tiny sharp pebbles. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. Dancing like rain on pavement.

John inhaled and exhaled and eyed the stairs to her bedroom with trepidation. One more mountain to climb, then sleep.

* * *

But sleep proved elusive.

John lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling long after she felt the shot-gun-blast slam of Sherlock’s bedroom door.

Tea? Something medicinal. Chamomile? Mint? Mint. And then perhaps a bit of physician-heal-thyself prescribing from the 221B first aid kit-cum-field hospital-cum-apothecary shop.

John stood, wobbling. She was cold, but, in that moment, the four paces required to fetch her bathrobe from the wardrobe might have been a trek across the Sahara. In a word, folly.

* * *

John swallowed two pills with a sip of fragrant warmth and set the mug on table beside her armchair. She picked at the sticky grey residue on the top of her hand, careful not to touch the purple dot where the IV had been removed as quickly as it had placed. She closed her eyes.

* * *

Cold, then not cold, then soft. Without opening her eyes, John’s fingers reached for the blanket. Not blanket. She knew the texture of every blanket in the flat. Too soft.

Dressing gown. The camel coloured one.

The camel coloured dressing gown was, ostensibly, Sherlock’s best dressing gown. It was the one that she wore for first-time clients when she wanted to give the full impression of a romantic hero, straight out of Xanadu or some gaslamp fantasy. It was the one she normally donned upon anticipation of a visit from her sister. They would sit opposite each other, Mycroft in her Savile Row finery, trying to out-toff one another with vocabularies as posh as their clothes.

700 quid, John had checked, for a garment that you would neither be married nor buried in. Christ.

The pills must be working, John thought, because she heard herself chuckle and say, “What’s it made of? Nipple hair from the Dali Lama’s goats?”

“Cashmere.”

John hummed.

“John.”

John opened her eyes. Sherlock was kneeling beside her. In the grey shadow, John could make out Sherlock’s drawn face and her body clothed in loose vest and pyjama bottoms.

“That man will be convicted of two sexual assaults and a murder, a fraction of the crimes he has actually committed.”

John nodded.

“He would have hurt you and enjoyed hurting you.”

John nodded, then protested. “But he had you!”

“Trading you for me is stupid! It’s a ridiculous device straight out of a Hollywood film!”

“But it worked!”

“It did not!”

“He let you go!”

“At what cost?! All that blood…”

“It wasn’t mine.”

“I know. I told the paramedics that. I told those fools at the A&E that.”

“Not fools, Sherlock. A bit overzealous, perhaps, but I wasn’t in a position to explain what had happened. They didn’t know what they were dealing with…”

“I told them!”

“Sherlock…”

“The tubes, John, and the wires and the machines…”

“You put a call into your sister. I know you did, Sherlock, because that was the fastest hospital discharge in the history of acute care. Christ, we’ve been in the waiting room longer than that after some cases.”

“You belong here, not there. But you mustn’t do that again. Ever.”

John shook her head. “I can’t promise that, Sherlock. He had you. My only thought was him _not_ having you. It doesn’t matter how.”

“Idiot!” The word was soft now, as soft as the cashmere between John’s fingers. “I am not a damsel in distress in need of rescuing!”

John sighed, “Maybe not the ‘distress’ part, but…”

“THERE IS NO RESCUING ME IF IT MEANS LOSING YOU!”

“Sherlock…”

“You must trust me, John. Trust that I have a plan.”

“You’re asking me to go against my instincts, Sherlock.”

“Yes! Yes, I am asking you to trust me and not you because losing you _is_ losing me, don’t you understand that?! Can you put that somewhere prominent in your vacant little head?! Promise me! Promise that you’ll trust me! I will find a way.”

John looked Sherlock’s wild hair and wild eyes, so desperate. It was such a child-like promise, what she was asking for, a fairy-tale oath.

But finally, John’s heart gave way, and she nodded.

“Okay.”

“The blood wasn’t yours, but it could have been. And then there would be no forgiveness or mercy or justice for him. Or for me.”

“Sherlock, that’s enough. Come here.” John reached out her arms and made to stand. Sherlock quickly draped the dressing gown around John’s shoulders and slid her arms around John’s waist, steadying her as she rose. John nodded to the sofa, and they moved as one with slow, clumsy shuffles.

Sherlock sat and John followed, straddling her.

“I’ll trust you, Sherlock, but you have to trust me, too. Trust that I know how to take care of you. That I will take care of you.”

John slipped her arms in the sleeves of the dressing gown and pulled down one-side of the front of her vest. She leaned forward and brushed a line down the centre of Sherlock’s lips with her nipple. Sherlock latched immediately.

“I’m here,” whispered John. “Everything’s okay.”

Sherlock mewled.

John took the sides of the dressing gown and created a makeshift shield around them.

Then she closed her eyes and breathed.

* * *

Home.

John.

JohnJohnJohnjohnjohnjohn…

Home. 


	5. The Tartan Flannel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which games are played and things go wrong. Wager, dirty talk/sexting, safewording, ANGST.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this dressing gown](http://www.sherlockology.com/wardrobe/tartan-dressing-gown-sherlock-holmes). Sherlock's lingerie is from the [Agent Provocateur Whitney](http://www.agentprovocateur.com/us_en/whitney-brief-black) collection.

BOOM!

“Oh Lord.”

John stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around herself, and hurried down the hall, dripping.

“OH LORD!”

Sherlock was at the kitchen table, in her tartan dressing gown.

The tartan dressing gown was essentially Sherlock’s lab coat, thick enough to protect her from the casual dangers produced by her tinkering. It was, of course, no match for flame or acid, but, thankfully, this appeared to be neither.

“Scavenger beetles,” said Sherlock.

“So that’s…insect slime…all over the stove?” And the counter and the cabinets and the refrigerator and—most alarming to John—the outside of the kettle.

“Yes. Not toxic.”

“Just a mess. Well, I didn’t really have time for breakfast anyway. I’ll be back for lunch, though, so clean it up by then, eh?”

Sherlock was still hunched over a notebook, scribbling. She grunted.

“Sherlock, I’m serious! I want this cleaned up by the time I get back!”

John stomped back to the loo, wondering when exactly she had turned into her mother.

* * *

“Sherlock! You’re exactly where I left you! Now the slime is,” John frowned at a black smear, “crusted. It’s going to be much more difficult to clean. You should have taken care of it this morning.”

Sherlock grunted.

“I am _not_ cleaning this up!” insisted John. “Your mess, your responsibility.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I guess I’ll get a sandwich downstairs.”

“A hundred pounds,” said Sherlock.

“What?”

“I’ll give you a hundred pounds to clean it up.”

John laughed. “You’re going to pay me to clean up your mess. No.”

“Two hundred.”

“NO! On principle, no.”

“How about a song?”

“You already gave me a song. It’s lovely.”

“How about an orgasm?”

John laughed again. “I had one Monday, thank you. Also lovely.”

“How about two?”

“Monday _and_ Tuesday. It’s been quite the gold star week for me!”

“Two in sequence, that is, in one setting.”

“Impossible.”

Oh Lord.

John knew before the word had been fully formed that it was precisely the wrong thing to say. Like lighting a match to a kerosene-soaked pile of brush.

“No, Sherlock!” she said, backing away as Sherlock advanced.

“John…”

“No! You are not, NOT, experimenting on me, sexually.”

“Not an experiment. A wager.”

“A wager based on an experiment. No!”

“You aren’t even going to listen to the terms? Not very sporting.”

“Sherlock, it would be an exercise in humiliation and frustration. You’ll want me to come, be expecting me to come, more than once, mind you, and I won’t come, at all. And I will still have to clean the kitchen!” John shuddered. “No, no, no.”

“Will you listen? I’m proposing a win-win situation for you. If you win, that is, if you come more than once, you get an intense amount of physical pleasure, and, if you lose, that is, if you don’t come, I’ll clean the kitchen.”

John’s glare did not soften.

“ _And_ do the laundry,” added Sherlock quickly.

John laughed. “Laundry, too?”

Sherlock nodded. “It’ll be in your interest _not_ to come. My one insistence is that you not feign orgasm—or lack of one.”

John considered. It couldn’t work. Sherlock was clever, but John knew her body and she simply wasn’t wired that way.

Clean kitchen _and_ clean clothes? Yes, please!

“Alright,” said John. They shook hands. “I’ve got head back to the surgery.”

“Perfect,” said Sherlock. “See you tonight.”

* * *

 

Sherlock was brilliant; it was fact.

It had been pure alchemy, what she’d accomplished, turning the lead of the prospect of scrubbing beetle entrails into the gold of another expedition into the unchartered waters of John’s sexual pleasure. She hadn’t been planning another foray so soon, of course, but John’s haranguing about the mess had proved inspirational, and Sherlock hadn’t a sliver of doubt that the week’s earlier successes would pale in comparison to what awaited: the beauty of watching John come over and over.

“John’s most erogenous zone is her mind,” she said to herself. “There’s no time to waste.”

* * *

 “Sherlock, are you okay?!”

“Yes, John.”

“You’re phoning me! On my phone! What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong. I just had a question about this evening.”

“Sherlock, I am at work. Text me and I’ll reply when I can. I’m turning off the ringer now. Please don’t blow up the flat!”

John smiled smugly.

Well, that put an end to that.

* * *

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome.”

The door closed.

John saw the blinking light on her phone. Don’t check it. Don’t check it.

**Preference? SH**

What followed were three photos of Sherlock in full pin-up attire.

Damn it! John shouldn’t have checked it! Now she was thinking about Sherlock in lingerie, with another, she looked at the clock, two hours to go.

Don’t reply. Don’t reply.

_The boots. JW_

Sherlock in thigh-high black leather boots—and little else.

The next message arrive immediately.

**May I enter your room? SH**

John frowned. What was Sherlock’s plan? To rig the wager in her favour, of course, but how?

_For what? JW_

**I want to use the bed. SH**

John had vague visions of Sherlock engineering something, dousing it with some sort of chemical aphrodisiac.

_For what? JW_

Two messages appeared. John read the second.

**Never mind. I’ll use the door. SH**

Then John opened the first message, an image.

“Oh Lord,” she said under her breath. That was Sherlock’s vibrator. John fumbled at her reply. Shit! Her thumb was too big and clumsy

_Use my bed! JW_

Knock, knock. “Doctor?”

“Yes, yes, please come in, so sorry to keep you waiting.” said John. She shoved her mobile into her pocket and washed her hands for the second time.

* * *

Twice John stuck her hand in her pocket, caressing her mobile, and twice, she yanked her hand out of her pocket as if burned and silently scolded herself.

Pull yourself together, woman!

At the first opportunity, John slipped down to the loo.

The next message was an audio file.

Christ, Christ, Christ on the Blessed Cross.

Don’t press play. Don’t press play.

“John, John, John.” Transcribed into black-and-white, it would be nothing, just her name over and over. Listening to it, however, it was a radio play, one orchestrated by John’s libido for John’s libido. Every sound was instantly recognizable: the tell-tale whir of a certain machine, the random bang-bang of a slumping body, the creak produced by of the shifting of weight, and the scrape of the soles of two very high-heeled, very pointy boots against floorboard.

The breathy voice, the rising pitch. The climax was, of course, the climax: Sherlock slamming her body against John’s bedroom door with John’s name on her lips.

John listened to it twice.

Knock, knock. “John? Are you okay?”

She was a pervert. This is what perverts did, hide in toilets and look at—well, technically, listen to—dirty pictures. She switched the mobile off entirely and washed her hands.

* * *

John did not turn her phone back on until she had exited the tube station. To her surprise, there was only one message.

**I made use of the bed as well. Thank you. SH**

Sherlock had masturbated in her bed.

The thought stalled John; she stepped into an alley two blocks from Baker Street.

_Did you change the bedding? JW_

**Yes. SH**

_Pity. JW_

* * *

Sherlock met John as she reached the top of the stairs.

“Since the kitchen is still currently out of commission, why don’t we go to Angelo’s?”

John nodded and did an about-face. “You’ve been a naughty girl,” she said.

“Not really, just got a bit distracted,” replied Sherlock with a smirk.

“And you thought you’d make it contagious! All part of your plan, I guess, your game, the seduction of John Watson.”

Sherlock hesitated and then bit her lip. “Is it working?”

“Oh yeah,” said John.

* * *

They ate in silence. Then Sherlock crossed her legs; John blinked.

The boots.

“Finally,” said Sherlock, with a huff. Then she leaned in and let her voice fall to a whisper. “Do you want to know what’s underneath?” She looked down and nodded at her grey skirt.

John answered with her own whisper. “I don’t have to be a proper genius or the world’s only consulting detective to know what’s underneath, or rather, what’s not.”

“I’ve become that obvious, have I?” Sherlock took a long sip from her wine glass.

“Transparent,” said John in her best Sherlockian voice.

“You could bring me off right here, right now.”

John looked around them, at the long draping tablecloth, at the semi-circular booth, at the other diners, all absorbed in their own conversations. She could, she felt fairly certain. Sherlock was a veritable chameleon of climax, getting off in whatever surroundings, in a bed, against a door, in a crowded restaurant. Not like John, of course, who needed elaborate, better-part-of-a-day-long coaxing, and then still wouldn’t be able to…

“Tell me about your dream. The other afternoon.”

John blew out a breath and considered. “Kind of vague. It was hot and dark. Through a tiny window there was light, beckoning me. I followed it, to the shoreline. Suddenly, it was cool and there you were, in the sea. Like a siren, you drew me to you, and somehow we swam together. Some species of mer-creatures, I guess. And we sort of,” John blushed, “frolicked.”

“Nice.”

“Yes. So, tell me about the scavenger beetles.”

“Well, the life cycle of the scavenger beetle begins…”

* * *

John swallowed the last of the whiskey and licked her lips. “Let’s go home.”

Sherlock nodded.

* * *

John glanced at the alley, _the_ alley in the 221B vernacular, as they passed. Then she looked at Sherlock, who grinned and raised an eyebrow.

John shook her head, laughing, and they hurried along.

They were both giggling like schoolgirls by the time they reached the sitting room. “My place or yours,” mumbled John between kisses as she wrenched the Belstaff from Sherlock.

“How about by the fire?”

John turned. There was a rug, a new rug, on the floor before the fireplace with assorted pillows, new pillows, around it, giving the whole scene a slightly Arabian nights look.

“Bit warm for a fire,” said John, scratching her head.

“Depends on how much clothing you’re wearing,” breathed Sherlock into her ear. And with a dramatic flair, Sherlock threw off her shirt dress, revealing black swathes of fabric that criss-crossed her crotch and breasts.

John laughed and removed her jacket. “The things you wear,” she, after a long wolf whistle. “You’re not setting a fire in that, you might do damage to yourself.”

“Shall I just lie back and provide filthy commentary?”

“Please.”

* * *

John had her back to Sherlock as she worked.

“You didn’t kill any animal for rug, did you?”

“No.” There was a pause. “I do so want to fuck you on it, though, John.”

“Yes, I’m sensing that was the theme of the day,” said John, a bit hoarsely.

“Fucking you? Yes, I guess it was. Against the door, in your bed…”

“Jesus Christ,” swore John softly.

“Sorry I changed the bedding. I thought you’d prefer…”

“I like the smell of you. I like knowing that you…” John swallowed.

“I thought of you. I always think of you.”

John was breathing hard now, trying to focus on the task at hand. And failing miserably.

“Fuck it,” she said, turning and pulling off her jumper. “Enough foreplay. The pump’s well past primed.”

John stripped down to her pants while Sherlock leaned back, legs extended, knees bend.

“Help me with the boots.” Her voice was its deepest, darkest, chocolatiest texture, and John fell to her side.

“This is soft,” said John, running her hand over the rug.

Sherlock nodded. “You like soft things, silk, cashmere, not on you, of course, but around you. Why do you think I prance about in dressing gowns like a Victorian opium-eater?”

John’s fingers were on the zipper of one boot, pulling it down slowly. She stopped. “No,” she said slowly. “You wear those things for you, not me.”

Sherlock gave a quick shrug. “For me, for you. I wear them because you like soft things and if I’m soft, you’re more likely to touch me.”

John stared at her. Was this part of the game? She scanned Sherlock’s eyes for artifice. And found none.

Her mouth was open. Then she shut it. She bent her head solemnly and pressed her lips to Sherlock’s knee. Then just as solemnly she said, “I love you, Sherlock. I…”

Sherlock unfastened the bra and let it fall. “If I let you wallow too much in sentiment, we’ll never get to the fucking.” Her eyes widened, lips curled.

John made quick work of the boots and then sprang up between Sherlock’s legs, cupping her jaw and kissing her roughly. “All day, eh?”

“Every. Minute. Fucking. You.”

“Well, come on, then.” And they rolled.

The next flowed as if choreographed, the pillow between John’s legs; Sherlock sprawled across at her back; the synchronized rolling of the hips; the tongue, teeth, and lips at John’s neck.

“Sherlock…”

“Yesss…”

John shoved the front of her pants down, so the top of her mons brushed velvety texture of the pillow. She felt her pants being tugged down further.

And there is was, the spark, falling on the mound of kindling that Sherlock had been painstakingly building all day.

John was coming, for sure, but there was something…different…about it. Pleasure, yes, of course, but it was somehow… distorted…muted…it felt foreign. Her cry was one of release and surprise. Her mind struggled to find a word or phrase that would capture the sensation, but as she failed at this, she realized her hips still were moving of their own accord, still rutting against the pillow, knees moving higher, legs widening, her entire lower half seeking more friction.

And there it was, a second wave. And ‘wave’ was the right word for it seemed to creep up from John from behind and knock her down and drag her under with its force.

“Oh, oh, oh!”

John barely heard Sherlock’s triumphant snort in her ear. Her body was still vibrating, still moving.

She didn’t want it to move. She was done. Sherlock had won. She wanted it to stop.

But it wasn’t stopping. She pinched her eyes shut.

John twisted to one side, pulling her legs together, but the motion caused another ripple to course through her. This one was a scraping of raw nerves, ugly, sour and foul; it felt like a violation.

“NO, NO, STOP!”

But there was nothing touching John, but herself. Sherlock’s weight was gone. John squeezed her muscles tight, willing the sensation to stop, to no avail. Where was Sherlock?

“Make it stop, Sherlock! PLEASE! SHERLOCK! STOP IT!”

The scraping continued.

Game. No was yes. Stop was go. Stop? Colour. FUCK! What colour? Silk.

“RED!” John screamed. Like emergency flares, she sent the word up in the air in the hopes that Sherlock would recognize it and come to her aid. “RED! RED!” She held her breath and waited.

John flopped to the other side; another ripple of ugly sensation tore through her. Eyes still closed tightly, she whined.

Not stopping!

“Sherlock!” It was a plea. No answer.

John was alone in this nightmare.

Abandoned.

She whined again, a low plaintive wail.

John shook her head violently.

MAKE IT STOP, WATSON!

How? Sever mind from body.

SCREAM!

John sucked in a deep breath. Then, she threw her head back, and expelling all the air in her lungs, screamed. But the tiny tremors were unrelenting. WHY WON’T IT STOP?!

What now? Nerves. Trick body, trick mind. Pain.

John dug the nails of her left hand into her right arm and ripped. She screamed again.

Pain, pain, pain, PAIN!

But it was working. She was floating. Out of her body. Up, up, up.

_CRASH!_

Cold water slapped John in the face. She sputtered and opened her eyes.

She was in the shower. Sherlock stared at her, eyes wide, mouth silently gasping like a fish dying on land.

John looked down at the four red streaks on her arm and then at the water turning a faint pink right before it swirled down the drain.

It had stopped. Finally. Her body was her own again.

She pushed past Sherlock and stumbled down the hall and up the stairs. After lodging a straight chair under the doorknob, she tore the duvet off the bed, crawled beneath the sheet, and hid.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was nothing; it was fact.

She squeezed water from the sponge.

No, that was not quite true.

In this moment, Sherlock was less than nothing, but she would soon be nothing.

When John left. Tomorrow? The day after?

Sherlock denied herself the luxury of speculation and continued scrubbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, for your author, the angst here is Based on a True Story, as they say. I don't think I'll ever understand what happened, but ficcing about things is truly the most convenient (i.e., inexpensive, portable, sans side effects), effective form of therapy I've found. Put it in black and white and lay it to rest.


	6. The Bathrobe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which many wrongs end up making a sort-of-okay. More angst, flogging, unsafe impact play and unhealthy coping mechanisms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this bathrobe](http://www.spylight.com/shows/sherlock/products/52396-majestic-international-men-s-queue-loop-terry-stripe-robe).

Step, step, step.

When John reached the sitting room, she saw Sherlock in her peripheral vision, lying on the sofa, reading. She kept her gaze down and said nothing. A clean counter entered her line of sight, she noted it as an abstract fact, without reaction.

She went numbly about making tea, two cups to her own surprise. She left one cup beside the sink. Then she made a piece of toast and sat down at the table, chewing and swallowing as if following instructions in a manual on the human consumption of food.

The tea sat untouched. At noon, John tossed it down the sink. She left in its place half of a sandwich, which binned and replaced with a small bowl of soup in the evening.

John orbited Sherlock like a moon, keeping a fixed distance away, neither touching nor speaking. She ate in the kitchen; Sherlock read in her armchair. Sherlock shifted to the desk and opened her laptop; John moved to the sofa and switched on the telly.

John was, she decided, mortified in the purest sense of the world. ‘Mort’ meaning death. She was dead with embarrassment, at how her body had reacted, at how her mind had reacted. If there was a more juvenile, hysterical, decidedly unsoldierly way of comporting oneself, she couldn’t imagine it. What must Sherlock think of her? Well, John had shown her true self: silly and stupid and frighteningly—for John was quite certain that Sherlock _had_ been frightened—broken. Who would want her on a case, if at any moment she might fall shrieking into a Victorian swoon and require smelling salts? Who would want her in bed? Sherlock liked games, liked play. And John, well, John had proved herself decidedly _unsporting_.

Hour by hour, the angry voice inside John grew louder and her desire for escape grew more urgent so that when the text from Harry came, she didn’t spare a moment in her reply.

**Nd hlp mvng n am.**

_Sure. Be there at 8. JW_

* * *

 

When John returned, the flat was quiet and still. Then she heard a small noise. She looked in the kitchen and frowned. Empty. Then she listened again and followed the sound, slowly down the hall towards Sherlock’s bedroom.

The door was half-cracked. She peered in, gasped, and quickly shuffled back up the hall.

“John!” called Sherlock. John stopped and leaned against the wall opposite the loo, trying to make sense of what she had seen.

 _Oh_.

“It’s okay, Sherlock. Really. It’s fine. All…”

“I’m not masturbating to pornography,” said Sherlock in a flat voice. “I’m not.”

The last phrase was so soft that John barely heard it. She moved back to the doorway.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed. She turned her laptop towards John, and John saw herself on the screen, stirring soup and doing the washing up.

“You filmed me?!”

Sherlock nodded. “Just the kitchen. The camera’s not hidden. You just never looked up.” Sherlock stared at the screen and then touched it with one finger tentatively. The image froze. “You hate having your photo taken, but I just wanted something,” Sherlock’s voice cracked; then she cleared her throat. “For when you go,” she finished quickly.

John felt the punch to her gut. “You want me to leave?”

The retort was quick. “Why would you stay?”

John reached out to touch Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock flinched, and John recoiled.

“You shouldn’t be touching me. You shouldn’t let me touch you.”

“Christ, Sherlock.”

John wrapped her arms around Sherlock. Sherlock made a feeble attempt at wriggling out of John’s grasp, but then stilled. She buried her face in John’s jumper and wound her arm’s ‘round John’s waist. John thought she heard a muffled sob.

“Listen, Sherlock. Yesterday was a mistake. I’m a coward. I should’ve tried to talk to you, but I was just so bloody embarrassed. I didn’t know how to start. I don’t know what happened the other night. I told you a long time ago that I was, well, broken and now you know just how much. If you want to, you know, break it off, that’s fine. I understand, but I can still be your assistant, or your friend, or whatever. I love you so bloody much.” John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and breathed in the scent of her hair.

Sherlock began to shake. Then she was screaming.

“ _I HURT YOU…”_ Startled, John looked down; Sherlock’s face was splotched and distorted. “… _FOR A LARK!_ ” The tears flowed freely. “ _BECAUSE I’M A LAZY TWAT WHO’D RATHER VIOLATE YOU THAN WIPE HER OWN ARSE!_ ”

“Sherlock,” John held Sherlock’s face and brushed the tears from her cheeks with her thumbs, “I consented to everything that happened. You didn’t force me to do anything.”

“No, but I manipulated you. I do it all the time, John.”

“If you had known my reaction, you wouldn’t have suggested it…”

“That makes me lazy _and_ stupid. I have towers of data on you.”

“…And hell, if _I_ had known my reaction, you would’ve respected my ‘no.’”

“You did say no. When I first suggested it. And then, you screamed it. _AND I COULDN’T MAKE IT STOP! I COULDN’T DO ANYTHING, BUT SIT THERE AND WATCH YOU BEING INVISISBLY TORTURED! WHAT KIND OF COWARD ARE YOU? WHAT KIND OF COWARD AM I?_ ”

“You did act. You threw me in the shower.”

“After you tried to claw your skin off.” Sherlock sniffed. “I trifled with you.”

“I like your trifling,” said John with a weak smile. Sherlock’s face was hidden in the crook of John’s neck. John’s eyes drifted to the bed.

Her breath caught.

It was lying in the bedding, making a long thin indention, like a snake in the grass.

“Sherlock, did you…?” John’s eyes flew to Sherlock’s back. She wore a thin short-sleeve vest and loose pyjama bottoms.

“No. I was waiting until after you left.”

“Christ, Sherlock.”

“I _will_ be punished, John. I cajoled and wheedled and threatened and damn near begged for your trust. And what did I do with it? I _shit_ on it. I got in your mind and in your body and _shit all over it_. I hurt the most precious…,” she shook her head violently, ”…for a lark! And if that isn’t _crime_ , if that isn’t _violation_ , if that isn’t _sin_ —“

“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,” whispered John, patting her dark hair. “You don’t believe in sin.”

“Not against anything but you.”

Sherlock looked up; her mouth was open in a silent cry.

“John.”

John held Sherlock tight against her, closed her eyes, and prayed.

And for her prayer, she received two things: a flash of understanding and a flash of inspiration.

Guilt. Sherlock Holmes felt guilty.

Now guilt was something that John knew very well, growing up in the world of ‘smells and bells’ as she had. Guilt was everywhere, in the everyday language, small guilts and profound ones. There might as well have been a fifth place set at the Watson supper table for guilt, for what she had done and what she had failed to do. Word, deed, and omission.

Sherlock Holmes did not know guilt. Until now. And, John realized, it was quite the shock to her un-inoculated system.

John also realized, in that moment, that Sherlock was mad. And that she herself was probably mad—the truly mad never thought themselves mad, did they?—because what she was about to propose was not mature, rational, therapeutic, or sane. She was following Sherlock into her madness with the hopes of leading her out of it, like Orpheus, knowing full well she might get lost in the fog herself.

The fog of madness.

John knew what she had to do. She just didn’t know if she had the wherewithal to do it.

She opened her eyes and reached for the dark handle that lay nestled in the bedding. She pushed down the bile that threatened to rise in her throat and said,

“I’ll do it.”

Sherlock pulled away. She wiped her face and nose and blinked.

John met her gaze. “Punishment should fit the crime. I’ll punish you, and you’ll be…absolved,” Christ, she was going to Hell for that one, “and we’ll move on, as before.”

But it was worth it, John decided, risking the flames of the Inferno, to see the despair slowly lift from Sherlock’s face.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, yes, that’s perfect. You do it.”

John looked at the handle. “What is this? Some sort of whip?”

“Flogger.”

“Christ. It’s looks old. Where did you get it?”

“I took it off a priest.”

John’s eyes widened. Jesus Christ.

Sherlock sniffed. “He wasn’t a very nice priest.”

“No, I guess he wasn’t,” said John. She looked around. “I want the crop, too.”

“Here? Now?”

“No. I want to take a nap and I want to think. Tonight?”

Sherlock sat up; she almost smiled.

“That’s my girl,” said John as she kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “Shower and eat something, okay?”

“Yes, John.”

* * *

It was not working.

John was an idiot, thought Sherlock.

Even in army fatigues, she looked like she would vomit and faint, in that order. She might have been a captain once, but in this moment, she was a private, afraid of getting caught playing dress-up in a colonel’s uniform.

It nauseated Sherlock to the point that she barely felt the flick of the crop. She was on all fours, on John’s bed, wearing John’s bathrobe, which was scrunched up at her lower back and draping on either side of her.

Sherlock’s irritation bubbled up, past all the dark emotions that had been burdening her.

“You aren’t even swinging it correctly!” she snapped.

John stopped. Sherlock turned her head and saw boots. She heard John’s breath, slow and even. She recognized the rhythm: pursed lip breathing, the kind that John had used in the early days to calm herself when she woke from night terrors.

It was a nightmare for both of them as John was being petty useless…

Sherlock’s thoughts stopped when she heard the riding crop hit the floor. Then on top of it, fell vest, undervest, trousers, pants, and John’s tags. Fingers were unlacing boots.

Ow!

John had just boxed Sherlock’s ears! Then Sherlock was being hauled out of the bedroom and they were tripping down the stairs clumsily. Then, John was kicking the ottoman—that normally sat gathering dust in the corner of the room, full of Sherlock’s heaviest reference books—in front of the fireplace. Sherlock was thrown down on it and stripped of the robe.

All of this took place in a matter of seconds, or so it seemed. Sherlock fell off the ottoman. Then she was being hoisted over it, stomach down. Then a hand was gripping her chin hard and pulling her head up. John squat, eye-to-eye with Sherlock.

Then, for the first time, Sherlock Holmes was frightened.

John’s eyes were cold. Her voice was even colder. She held the flogger in her hand.

“I am not dominating you. I am not topping you. I have no interest in doing either of those things. I am _punishing_ you. I will not spare your spine or kidneys or any other part of you. How many times, Sherlock?”

What?

“Punishment should fit the crime. We’re right here,” John pointed to the fireplace, “were you…violated…me. So tell me, how many times did I scream?”

Sherlock was falling. Her mind was quickly replaying the scene. Over and over. John’s screams.

“I asked you a question. I know you count. Everything. So tell me. I won’t ask again.”

“Six,” mumbled Sherlock.

“Six is a good number. I expect you to count. Aloud.”

_WHOOSH!_

“One.”

The barbs were sticking in Sherlock’s skin and stinging it like vengeful bees, and John’s words were like salt, cascading over the open wound.

“’Still has trust issues.’ Not really,” sneered John. “I decided to trust you. Let you in. And how did you repay that trust, Sherlock? I’m not really looking for an answer. Just a number.”

_WHOOSH!_

“Two,” breathed Sherlock.

“Toy with my trust, my good will. You implored me, just the other night, to go against my own instincts and trust you. And what did that get me? Madness. Pain. You’re supposed be leading the charge into battle, just where exactly were you leading me?”

_WHOOSH!_

“Three.”

“But then again, I’m not your partner, I’m more of a house servant, for cleaning up messes and making sure your boots are shiny. Why am I upstairs, Sherlock? I belong downstairs. Your little whipping girl. Ha! Who’s got the whip now? What’s that little creature with the sock? Dobby? When do I get my sock, Sherlock?”

_WHOOSH!_

“Four,” Sherlock coughed. Her mind was in shambles, and her skin was beyond burning.

“How’s my technique, _Sherlock_?”

_WHOOSH!_

“Five.”

“You arrogant, little…. YOU. ARE. NOT. GOD.”

_WHOOSH!_

“Six.” Sherlock heard the word, but was not sure who had said it. Something hit on the floor. Then her mind was fully wrenched back into her body when John pulled her head back by the hair.

“Open your eyes!” ordered John. “Do you want to die, Sherlock? Will that be punishment enough? Because if that’s what you want, I will kill you, right here, right now, not with any torture chamber instrument, but with my bare hands. I will do it, if that’s your wish, but know that _losing you is losing me_ , so, rest assured, that signing your own death warrant is signing mine. Now. A colour?”

Sherlock had visions of herself, her naked body on the floor, of the swarm of officers and SOCOs, the flash of cameras, the brushing of swabs, the zipping closed of tiny plastic bags. John’s body would be atop hers. Or she’d be lead away in handcuffs. She saw John being processed and in her cell and standing trial. Then she looked down and saw the drops of blood on the floorboard.

“Red,” she whispered.

“Oh, thank God. My girl, my girl, my beautiful girl. Jesus fucking Christ.” And Sherlock was tumbling into John’s arms. “It’s done, love. It’s done. All done. No more. My sweetness, my sweet, sweet girl.” She was being rocked. And rocked. “I’m not a god, John,” she mumbled. “No. You’re an angel, you’re my angel, my beautiful, beautiful, winged creature, my butterfly…” She felt John’s lips on her face. “I love you. Love you, love you, love you.”

Sherlock let the words pour over her like honey, but they were really just one word.

John.

* * *

 

John cleaned Sherlock, disinfected and bandaged her wounds, and put her to bed. She’d made her drink a few sips of water, but not trusting Sherlock to swallow pills or her own hands to administer an injection, she put a dropper or two of liquid beneath Sherlock’s tongue. All the while, she was chanting such endearments, every word and word combination her feeble mind could conjure.

When she was sure that Sherlock was asleep, she went to the toilet and vomited until her stomach was twisted in a hard knot. She allowed herself the luxury of a few moments on the cool tile and then got up.

And cleaned up the scene. All of it.

Then she went back to Sherlock and kept vigil, literally over her like a vulture, watching her breathe, counting the breaths per minute.

24, 22, 20, 18, 16.

“John?”

Sherlock must have the constitution of a stubborn ox to have woke through her drug-and-fatigue torpor.

“Sherlock?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. It’s all done. Everything’s okay. We’re okay. Sleep, please.”

Sherlock snuffled, and her head hit the pillow.

John threw off her bathrobe and lay beside Sherlock.

And closed her eyes. 


	7. The Bedsheet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one week comes to an end and another begins.

Sherlock woke, as she always did, all at once.

No John. 

She felt a stab of panic, but then turned her head and saw, on the bedside table, a bottle of water, a cup of tea, two white pills and a scrap of paper which read ‘LAUNDRY’ punctuated with heart.

Sherlock shifted and winced.

Must not wince in front of John.

She shifted again.

Better.

No wincing or cringing or grimacing. Just transport.

One more time. Good.

Leaving the bed was another challenge, but after a few trials, she strode to the wardrobe without hesitation.

No dressing gown. She looked back at the bed. No duvet either.

Well, there was nothing for it.

* * *

 

Sherlock trod down the stairs slowly.

“Good evening,” she said as she reached the bottom.

“Ah, you’re up,” said John, turning. “Sherlock!”

“You took all my dressing gowns!” Sherlock protested and pointed to the wooden rack in the corner where the blue and red silks hung to dry. She pulled the bedsheet tighter around herself.

“This is a colossal amount of laundry for two people,” said John as she stooped to fill the dryer. “How are you feeling? Any pain?”

“No,” Sherlock lied. She had no intention of taking anything to dull the pain. She wanted to feel it, wanted the reminders for as long as her body kept them. And if there were a permanent scar or two, well, so much the better.

As John turned to load the washer with dark garments, Sherlock saw the dark brown stains on the back of John’s bathrobe. She shuffled closer and wrapped her arms around John’s waist. John poured the soap into the machine and then leaned against her. Sherlock fought the urge to weep with relief.

Everything was okay. But this bathrobe.

Sherlock put her hands on the knotted sash. “May I?”

“What am I going to wear? I’ve nothing on.”

“This is quite a large sheet.”

John looked over her shoulder and smirked.

Four sets of fingers worked to untie the sash. John shrugged out of the bathrobe and turned. Sherlock used one hand to drop the garment into the washer, close the lid, and start the machine. The other she used to pull John into her cocoon.

“You’re giving yourself away, my dear girl,” said John in a posh voice. “I didn’t know that you knew how to do laundry.” She gently curled her arms around Sherlock’s neck. “I didn’t wash the cashmere dressing gown. Even by hand, I don’t trust myself—“

“I trust you, John,” interrupted Sherlock.

It needed to be said. Aloud. Often.

John kissed Sherlock’s neck. “I trust you, too, but I’m still sending your poncey rag out to be cleaned tomorrow.”

John’s skin was touching Sherlock’s skin, and it was glorious.

Home.

Sherlock bent and slid her arm under John’s knees and lifted her.

“Ugh!” exclaimed John, giggling.

They moved up the stairs and to the sitting room. Sherlock laid John down on the sofa and sat on the edge of it, fidgeting until she found a position that was semi-comfortable.

John’s eyes scanned Sherlock’s face. “You _are_ hurting.”

“So are you,” said Sherlock, tracing the edge of the white rectangular bandage on John’s arm. “But not anywhere that matters, I think.” Sherlock put a faint interrogative lilt at the end of the statement.

“No, no. Hm. You’re right. That’s right. You know, you’re bril—“ She stopped. “May I?” she asked.

Sherlock sensed there would be quite a bit of ‘May I?’ in the weeks to come. “Please do,” she said.

“You’re brilliant, Sherlock.”

It felt as good as it always had. Sherlock bit back a sigh and said slowly, “And you are…”

John blushed, but did not look away.

“…beautiful.”

“Thank you,” John said with a small smile. How far they had come in a week, thought Sherlock with no little wonder.

John’s face grew serious. “Sherlock…”

“Hmm?” Sherlock rested her forehead against John’s and looked into her eyes.

“Could we, you know, take the day off tomorrow, from cases and experiments and chores and just… _be_?” She touched the indention at the base of Sherlock’s neck; the caress felt like a kiss.

“How about a proper holiday?”

“Really?! Oh, Sherlock!” John threw her arms around Sherlock. The child-on-Christmas exuberance more than compensated for the searing pain brought about by the embrace. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m going to look at those.” John pulled away. Sherlock leaned into her.

“Just transport. Where do you want to go?”

“Some place quiet. With a high probability of a locked room murder or a series of vanishing hikers.”

“Sounds fabulous.”

John planted a quick, hard kiss on Sherlock’s lips and scooted around her, off the sofa. “You book it. I’ll make tea and pack as soon as the laundry’s done.”

“How long?”

John turned back. They locked eyes and said together,

“A week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much of an ending, but I wanted to put this story to rest. A very sincere thank you to all my gentle readers who have taken this roller-coaster ride with me. 
> 
> Next on the horizon is (hopefully) another chapter of the Three fic and cooking up a trick story and a treat story for Halloween! Boo!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
